The Bee Killer
“I killed it,” she said with a huff.
I handed my last customer his steaming cup of coffee. He threw a couple of dirty pennies into the tip jar and departed. I turn to my co-worker and see her standing in front of the open back door with her arm stretched out and a squashed bee in her hand.
“Good,” I said. The boys had been torturing it; they had somehow knocked the bee half-conscious and tied a string around it and had been slowly dipping it into a cup of boiled water.
“I killed it,” she said again. But this time her voice was mournful and her head tilted to the side as she looked at the bee in her hand. Her eyes were glazed over and it didn’t seem like she was really there.
She twisted her hands and I noted that although they were scrubbed raw, there was still a brownish-red color beneath her fingernails.
“I have to go,” she said. She dropped her hands to her side and the bee dropped onto the floor to join the donut crumbs and lively ants.
She doesn’t bother clocking out.
She walks numbly out the door, leaving muddy footprints behind her. She had been leaving muddy footprints everywhere.
After she’s gone, another customer comes in. I grabbed him his small cup of coffee and went to grab him his two plain donuts. I felt something squish beneath my foot. I realize that it’s the dead bee.
“I killed it.”
Three little words.
I had heard them often enough. This girl was a spider killer, a cockroach assassin, and an ant squasher. Killing a bee was nothing. And yet she left as if it was everything.
They meant nothing.
I didn’t see my co-worker for a week. The next time I do see her, she’s in a photo that’s handed to me in a police station. My fingers clutched the edges.
They wanted to know if she was dangerous. They wanted to know if she was capable of homicide.
I thought of her fingernails and muddy tracks. I thought of the way that she looked at the bee.
I told them no.
The girl wasn’t like the boys. Sure, she was quite the assassin when it came to insects, but she didn’t torture them. Her kills were simple. Mercy killings really. The squashed bee still on the Dunkin Donuts floor was proof of that.
They asked if I was sure.
I hesitated.
They raised their eyebrows at me.
“No,” I said firmly, but even I don't believe it.
(written for
therealljidol)
“I killed it,” she said with a huff.
I handed my last customer his steaming cup of coffee. He threw a couple of dirty pennies into the tip jar and departed. I turn to my co-worker and see her standing in front of the open back door with her arm stretched out and a squashed bee in her hand.
“Good,” I said. The boys had been torturing it; they had somehow knocked the bee half-conscious and tied a string around it and had been slowly dipping it into a cup of boiled water.
“I killed it,” she said again. But this time her voice was mournful and her head tilted to the side as she looked at the bee in her hand. Her eyes were glazed over and it didn’t seem like she was really there.
She twisted her hands and I noted that although they were scrubbed raw, there was still a brownish-red color beneath her fingernails.
“I have to go,” she said. She dropped her hands to her side and the bee dropped onto the floor to join the donut crumbs and lively ants.
She doesn’t bother clocking out.
She walks numbly out the door, leaving muddy footprints behind her. She had been leaving muddy footprints everywhere.
After she’s gone, another customer comes in. I grabbed him his small cup of coffee and went to grab him his two plain donuts. I felt something squish beneath my foot. I realize that it’s the dead bee.
“I killed it.”
Three little words.
I had heard them often enough. This girl was a spider killer, a cockroach assassin, and an ant squasher. Killing a bee was nothing. And yet she left as if it was everything.
They meant nothing.
I didn’t see my co-worker for a week. The next time I do see her, she’s in a photo that’s handed to me in a police station. My fingers clutched the edges.
They wanted to know if she was dangerous. They wanted to know if she was capable of homicide.
I thought of her fingernails and muddy tracks. I thought of the way that she looked at the bee.
I told them no.
The girl wasn’t like the boys. Sure, she was quite the assassin when it came to insects, but she didn’t torture them. Her kills were simple. Mercy killings really. The squashed bee still on the Dunkin Donuts floor was proof of that.
They asked if I was sure.
I hesitated.
They raised their eyebrows at me.
“No,” I said firmly, but even I don't believe it.
(written for
therealljidol)Current Mood: 
busy
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